"I have always wanted to believe in a better world. That someday, the monarchy will fall from its golden tower, and Sector 1 will burn, and the tattoo on my neck won't matter anymore. I'll stand in the rubble finally equal to all of them. But belief is fickle, easily snuffed out — like a candle in a drafty room. What if that better world doesn't exist? What if all of this blood is for nothing? What do I do then?"

- Excerpt from the private journal of revolutionary figure, Suga

_ _

The cracking edge of the skyscraper roof groans beneath his boots—small chunks of concrete breaking off to tumble into the dark abyss below. This high up, he can't see the ground, doesn't know how many stories he would fall if he jumped. There is only inky shadow that yawns like the black holes he read about in an Old World book—gravity wells that can even swallow stars. He backs up a terrified step and more cracks spiderweb through the concrete, widening rapidly like breaking ice on a frozen lake.

"It's pointless," a rasping voice says from behind him and he whirls to see ... himself. Or rather a version of himself. One whose hair has been dyed a soft pink, whose face has been adorned with makeup, whose clothes are pretty and shimmering.

(Whose jaw sports bruises in the shape of clenched fingers, whose neck is encased with a metal collar, whose eyes are terrifyingly empty behind blue decorative lenses.)

"You can't escape. Don't you know that already?" the illusion(?) asks, cocking its head to one side. The metal of the collar digs into its pale neck and a trickle of red blood spills down across the gold. Yoongi feels the echoing pain of it beneath his own skin.

"I have to try." Yoongi backs up another step. A large piece breaks free from the roof, but makes no sound as it falls. Perhaps there isn't any ground below at all.

"Why?" the illusion asks. "You'll never be free. Shouldn't you just accept your fate?"

"I'll die first," Yoongi snarls, turning towards the edge.

Behind him, the illusion laughs, loud and almost manic. "Don't you know?" it asks, voice twisting dark and furious.

Yoongi gasps as pain flares in his veins like an explosion, emanating from his arms out through the rest of his body. It brings him crashing to his knees, staring down at the red bands encircling his wrists. He sobs—a useless, instinctive action—and curls further into a ball, trying to escape the agony even though he knows it's futile. Dimly, he feels metal digging into his neck, the ache of bruising along his jaw.

Boots step into his view and he tilts his head up, blinking through tear-blurred eyes at the illusion. Or is this the real him? This one dressed in the same clothes he had on the day he was sanctioned: worn black combat boots, black pants with a patch on one knee, a black coat mended over and over again, hair free of dye and skin clear of wounds.

"Don't you get it?" the illusion, the real him, says, crouching down. His face twists in loathing, then settles into sadness. "You're already dead."

_ _

Wait. Rewind.

_ _

He wishes he was dead. He wants to die. To close his eyes and never fucking wake up again. Then he wouldn't have to face the bloody sheets twisted around his body, or the ache so deep inside of him, he doesn't think it will ever heal. He wouldn't have to struggle to breathe through the stench of bile that's heavy in this room or the mess on his skin from a combination of vomit, blood, and someone else's come. His head aches from the drugs, his arms feel like they're about to fall off—still tied to the headboard with two lengths of rope—and he wants to die.

(Please, gods, why can't he die?)

Approaching footsteps, and he lets out an instinctive, horrified whimper at what is probably about to happen.

(No more—he can't take any more, it hurts so bad already, please...)

But the man who comes into view isn't Third Master, with his handsome, sneering face, just his master's head servant, who oversees the house. The eyes that peer down at him contain only distant pity, set in a too-thin face. He doesn't have a name to go with this face—one has never been offered, because why should pets know the name of someone above them? So he's taken to referring to the man as Scarecrow, because of his height and his long, almost spindly limbs.

"You vomited again," Scarecrow says with a sigh and he cringes back against the bed in shame, hoping he won't be punished. Sometimes, Scarecrow hits him for disobedience, but the worst is when Scarecrow tells Third Master and then the real horror starts. He knows better than to apologize, though. Pets don't talk.

However, Scarecrow merely shakes his head and reaches up to untie him. His arms flop to the bed like dead fish and he wheezes in a grateful breath.

"Get up, boy," Scarecrow orders.

He hurries to comply, swallowing back all the sounds of pain burning in his throat as his battered body protests. The pain is nearly enough to make him vomit a second time, but he forces that down too—terrified of what the price might be for such an indiscretion. Once he's finally upright, he subtly leans against the bed to steady himself and ignores the horrible sensation of fluid trickling down the insides of his thighs. He feels filthy, standing here naked with all his wounds and mess on display, and the disgusted curl of Scarecrow's upper lip just reinforces how awful he must look.

"Come," Scarecrow says, gesturing for him to follow. Third Master usually demands that he crawl, but Scarecrow doesn't care for such displays, so he merely limps forward, stumbling across the tiled floor to the adjacent bathroom where Scarecrow has already turned on the shower.

The water pressure is high and the temperature is freezing. He can't help the pained, sobbing cry that finally escapes when he's shoved under the spray.

"Quiet," Scarecrow hisses and he grits his teeth to obey, pressing his hands against the glass so he doesn't fall as his body trembles.

Scarecrow reaches up and removes the showerhead from its holder. Yoongi (that's still his name, right?) flinches as it's aimed at his face, then down his chest, and finally between his legs. It's so cold, it hurts so much. He's still bleeding inside, he can feel it—can see the red water swirling down the drain as the shower finally turns off. He's glad for the fog of the drugs, at least. He doesn't remember what happened last night or who used him and he hopes it stays that way.

"Out," Scarecrow says, continuing his usual stream of one-word commands.

Yoongi wobbles out of the shower and lets himself be roughly toweled down. He isn't given anything to cover himself with, but at least he's clean. He'll take small mercies.

Scarecrow leads him back into the bedroom and orders him to his knees in the corner. He sinks down slowly, careful not to make any noise, and watches through the damp falls of his bangs as Scarecrow efficiently strips the bed of the ruined sheets and opens the curtains to let the weak morning light in. There are other staff in the household, but for some reason Scarecrow always insists on performing these cleanup duties himself. Yoongi knows not to ask why, it's not something an object needs to know. At least Scarecrow doesn't touch him like Third Master does.

(Small mercies.)

Once Scarecrow has finished with the bed, he goes to the closet and retrieves a familiar black object. Yoongi shudders at the sight of it, flinching back against the chair. Pity once again radiates from Scarecrow's eyes, but he merely says, "hold still," as he fits the muzzle over Yoongi's face. The attached gag slips securely between Yoongi's teeth, silencing him, and the straps dig into the back of his skull.

Please, he thinks as he feels reflexive, helpless tears drip down his cheeks, let me die. It would be easy to suffocate him, or strangle him with the new bedsheets. Scarecrow could tell Third Master that the poor little companion choked to death on his own vomit, it's happened before—happened to the boy that used to be here with him, months or weeks or years ago.

But he knows better. He's only going to die when Third Master decides to kill him, and it will be agonizing and slow and cruel—just like his current existence.

_ _

Rewind.

_ _

"You're lucky," the Wife says as she glares at him, "that I don't just kill you."

She hates him. Hates that Second Master so often fucks him instead of her, that's him in their marriage bed several nights a week while she retires to a guest room to stew in silence. The sight of her furious face makes him want to laugh—at her, at her pathetic anger. Can't she see that her husband simply uses him? That it's her he touches with love and devotion and it's Yoongi he keeps as a canvas to vent his anger and violence onto?

Probably not. She's spoiled and arrogant and blind to so much.

(She hates him, but Yoongi hates her too.)

"Do it," he whispers, meeting her eyes just to see her flinch. Her husband isn't home—out for a business meeting this afternoon—and Yoongi's own anger makes him bold. "Kill me."

Her pretty face contorts in a grimace of rage and she surges up from her seat on the couch. She has so many silver bracelets on her wrists that they jangle when she moves and he listens as she stalks to the kitchen. When she returns, she's holding a knife, and now it's Yoongi's turn to flinch, berating himself for his moment of recklessness. She probably won't actually kill him without Second Master's approval, but there are still so many ways to hurt him.

"Maybe," she says, wrapping her fingers around his collar to hold him still and pressing the blade of the knife to the corner of his mouth, "I should just cut out your tongue instead."

Panic roars through his brain, sweeping everything else away. He shakes his head, quivering when he feels the blade actually cut his skin and blood drip down his chin.

"That's right," the Wife says, gleeful. "Not so brave now, are you?" He whines, trying to appease her. She laughs and tightens her grip. "Apologize, pet."

"Sorry," Yoongi gasps, trying not to move his mouth too much and let the knife cut him further. "Sorry, mistress, I'm sorry, please don't, please...."

He hates himself for begging like this, but tells the seething, furious voice in his head that they have to survive. Whatever it takes.

She pauses, pretending to contemplate, and he plays her game, letting more words spill out of his mouth, "I'll be good, I promise, I'll do anything you want, please, please—"

"Quiet," she snaps and he clicks his mouth shut, tasting blood. "I suppose there are still some good uses for your tongue."

Mercifully, she sets the knife aside and unties his leash from the leg of the armchair. He lets himself be dragged across the room to the couch without protest, already knowing where this is going. So he tucks his mind away somewhere safe: a construction of the apartment back in Sector 10. Hoseok is there, asleep on the mattress with a peaceful expression on his face. In his mind, Yoongi lies down beside him, even as he hears the sound of a zipper and manicured nails dig into his scalp, tugging him forward.

Hoseok opens his eyes and smiles, lifting an arm so that Yoongi can press against his side. He's warm and safe and familiar and Yoongi burrows into him. Focuses on his scent instead of the flesh beneath his tongue as he does his best to pleasure the Wife like she wants.

"That's it, pet," she says, voice already a little breathy. He's not sure if it's his mouth or his submission that has her so easily riled up, but it doesn't matter.

In his mind, Hoseok presses a kiss to his temple and murmurs, it's okay, love. I'm here.

Don't be afraid.

_ _

Rewind.

_ _

He tugs on the chains that have him secured to the wall, hating the fear settled in his stomach like a boulder, pressing down. He knew this was coming, ever since the auctioneer typed sold next to his name in the house's database. Ever since a needle in his neck and his arm—one to sedate him, one to bleed initials into his skin in black ink.

You'll earn a bed, his new master said when he woke up in this windowless room, already naked and chained to the wall. When you're good.

He doesn't want to be good. He wants to scream, fight, rip the man's face off with his fingernails if that's what it takes. He won't go quietly, he doesn't care what the other companions advised him at the auction house.

He won't, he won't.

The door clicks open and his new master enters. His hair is tinged with gray and his body has softened from years of opulence. Perhaps he was handsome once, but he seems grotesque to Yoongi as he crosses the room, a limp to his step. He has a long stick with a pronged end and Yoongi bares his teeth as he recognizes it as the same electric prod the trainers liked to use in the auction house.

"My, look at you," the bastard says, crouching next to Yoongi's prone body. "Such an animal."

He stabs the prod into Yoongi's side and Yoongi hisses through the electric jolt of pain, twisting away. The shithead laughs.

"Like a worm on a hook," he says, delighted, and touches the prod to Yoongi stomach. Yoongi snarls and kicks out, managing to slam his heel into the motherfucker's knee hard enough to stagger him.

That earns him another shock to his thigh and a backhand across the face, but he doesn't care, just kicks out again, kneeing his "master" in the stomach when he leans over Yoongi. The asshole absorbs the blow and shakes his head.

"Fight all you want now, little bitch," he says and presses his foot to Yoongi's neck, cutting off his air. Yoongi wheezes and jerks at the chains, trying to free himself from the wall on pure instinct. "You'll submit, eventually. I've got plenty of time."

Black bleeds into Yoongi's vision, but the pressure lifts before he can fully pass out, leaving him gasping and coughing, desperately drawing air into his lungs. He knows he'll probably lose, eventually. He isn't naive, or stupid, but every fight means that the bastard punishes him with the prod or a whip or a blow and doesn't touch him beyond that.

He'll take this pain over being fucked. For as long as he can.

_ _

Rewind.

_ _

("Fuck me," Jungkook begs, cupping Yoongi's face with trembling hands, and Yoongi's heart burns to ash in his chest.)

_ _

Rewind. Rewind.

_ _

Fingers in his mouth that taste like ash and nicotine, even though they're sprayed with expensive perfume. The auction house representative hums as he examines Yoongi's teeth and forces his jaw open. Yoongi gags as the fingers press down on his tongue, eyes watering. Mercifully, they withdraw without pushing in any further, and the representative wipes his hands on an embroidered handkerchief before gripping Yoongi's chin and turning his head to the left, then the right.

Yoongi can't imagine he looks very appealing. The police beat him in an attempt to get information and he's been locked up in a cell for several days without access to a shower or even a toilet that wasn't a bucket in the corner. One eye is swollen shut and the stench of himself is pugnant in his own nostrils, but doesn't seem to be fazing the representative.

"Hmm, he's pretty enough," the representative says, eyes raking down Yoongi's bare body like he's assessing merchandize in a store. Yoongi fights the urge to cover himself, keeping his spine straight and his gaze defiant. "Small, too, that'll sell well. We'll take him."

"Excellent," says the police captain, relief clear in her voice. "I'll get his papers."

Yoongi hopes, desperately, that Jungkook has been chosen for the factories or the greenhouse district instead. It's backbreaking work, with a short life expectancy, but it's better than where Yoongi is headed. Better than life as a companion at the feet of sadistic elite, an object for their pleasure and their violence and nothing else.

But there is no one listening to his prayers, it seems, because Jungkook is huddled in the back of the auction house van when Yoongi's thrown inside, already chained to the bench by his wrists. He looks just as battered and the grief on his face is a reflection of Yoongi's.

"Hyung," he murmurs sadly, once Yoongi has been chained in place and the doors slam shut, sealing them inside.

"I'm sorry, Jungkook-ah," Yoongi rasps, shifting forward. There isn't much give to the chain, and the handcuffs cut into his wrists, but he manages to close the distance between them enough to press his forehead to Jungkook's. "I'm so sorry."

"It's okay," Jungkook whispers. "We'll be okay."

Yoongi knows it's a lie, but he doesn't correct Jungkook. Maybe they both need something false to believe in right now.

_ _

Rewind, rewind.

_ _

"Tell me the truth," the police captain snaps, slamming his head onto the table hard enough to knock the breath out of him. "What were you carrying before you were arrested? How did you obtain it?"

Yoongi presses his lips together in stubborn silence. They won't get anything out of him and the sooner they accept that, the better.

_ _

Rewind, rewind, rewind.

_ _

Yoongi skids to a halt at the edge of the roof, gasping as he realizes that the gap between crumbling buildings it too big to jump. There's no way down, no way out—at least not for him, but...

"Go," he says, turning to Jungkook. "You can make it." Jungkook is faster and stronger than him, a jump like this should be nothing. "I'll distract them long enough for you to get away."

Jungkook's face is a study of horror beneath the dirt and grime from their mad dash through the rotting condemned zone. The info about the guard rotations that Taehyung passed along to them was wrong and they walked right into a patrol, right into a fucking trap, and now...

"Go," Yoongi repeats, desperate. He can hear boots on the rickety stairs, angry voices getting louder as the city police make their way to the roof. " Now, Jungkook-ah."

"I'm not leaving you," says Jungkook. Stubborn, stupid Jungkook—and Yoongi watches in shock as he throws the bag of contraband equipment off the edge of the roof, into the tangled ruin below.

"Jeon Jungkook, if you don't fucking run," Yoongi snarls, terror welling up in his chest like a howling storm.

But it's too late. It's already too late. The door they flimsily tried to barricade crashes open from a well-placed kick and the police stream on to the roof like angry bees, their weapons raised. Jungkook lifts his chin in defiance and Yoongi wants to scream—at him, at the police—but he knows better. This is about survival now.

"On your knees!" The officer in front says, her voice distorted by her helmet mic and her face obscured beneath a black visor.

Jungkook goes down first and Yoongi follows, the rough concrete digging into his skin through the thin barrier of his pants. He raises his hands in submission, moving on autopilot as another officer stalks forward and sinks a rough hand into Yoongi's hair. Yanks his head to the side to expose Yoongi's neck to the glare of his flashlight.

"Two strikes," the officer announces, pressing a thumb against Yoongi's Mark and the lines inked into his skin below it.

Next to them, Jungkook gets the same treatment. "Two strikes here too."

"Take them in," the police captain says, her weapon still raised.

Yoongi grits his teeth as his arms are yanked behind his back and handcuffs snap around his wrists. The officer pulls him to his feet with a tight grip on the sleeve of his coat, shoving him so hard he nearly falls over again.

"Move," he snaps. "Try to run and we put a bullet in both your brains."

Yoongi wonders, with a mixture of fury and despair, if that would be preferable to what's about to happen.

_ _

Rewind...

_ _

Yoongi stares down at the man groveling at his feet with dispassion. His pleas and denials echo through the empty warehouse, bouncing off old, rusting metal with no one to hear.

"Stop lying, we know the informant was you. Do you know what you've cost us?" Yoongi asks, hands in the pockets of his coat. With a mask over the lower half of his face and his hood pulled up, he knows what kind of intimidating figure he makes, in spite of his smaller stature, and it's gratifying to see the rat flinch. "Do you know what you've done? "

"Four people sanctioned," Jimin says from his left, flicking a knife open and closed in a motion that would be casual if not for the angry tension in his jaw and neck, visible even behind his face mask, and the steel in his eyes. "Two of them with families."

"All because you wanted to make a few extra won," Yoongi finishes, letting his own fury bleed into his voice.

It was only a matter of time before someone betrayed them—he'd been expecting it. But not like this. Not in the middle of one of the coldest winters on record and a sector-wide crackdown that's already making smuggling goods in hard. Not when there are several families in desperate need of the medicine and supplies he promised to bring them. Not with such a bad fallout, either. Four people he cared about and trusted, four of his fellow Marked—gone between one breath and the next because someone got greedy.

He would have understood, if the man sniveling in front of him had people that he needed to protect. He's scared, thinking about what he might do if it was Taehyung or Jimin or Jungkook or Hoseok on the line. But this coward has no one but himself to look after. He's not even a fucking Marked —just someone who got on the wrong side of the crown and was banished to poverty in Sector 10. His information was useful, which is why Yoongi decided to recruit him, but he's kicking himself now for that mistake.

"Please," the man says, raising his bound hands in supplication. He looks pathetic, with tears and snot all over his face. All Yoongi can think about are the children that no longer have parents, left alone to face the harsh reality of Sector 10. "Please, I'm sorry."

"Because you got caught," Yoongi snaps. If Jimin hadn't dug out the source of the leak, this asshole would have happily spent the winter in his upgraded quarters, living off the luxuries of his betrayal.

"What do you want to do with him?" Jimin asks, snapping the knife open again.

The rat whimpers at the clear implication.

"Kill him," Yoongi says without hesitation. He doesn't want more blood on his or Jimin's hands, but they can't let the informant live with what he knows, or what he's done.

Jimin nods and Yoongi forces himself not to turn away as Jimin stalks forward and slits the man's throat, silencing him with brutal efficiency.

"I'll deal with the body," Jimin says when the man's dying gasps have faded into quiet, his voice still tight with anger.

"I'll get us those supplies," Yoongi says, finally turning towards the warehouse door.

"Hyung."

"I'll be careful," Yoongi promises, smiling faintly over his shoulder at Jimin, trying to assuage the worry evident on Jimin's face. "But we can't stop now."

Or more people will die.

With that thought in his mind, he shoulders his way outside into the snow. He knows where to go to get what he needs and he has the information Taehyung passed along to him tucked into his pocket. Hopefully it will be enough to encourage their contact into moving the goods as promised, in spite of the raid.

He finds the woman in Sector 4, on her usual smoke break between deliveries. She likes to drift away from the factory pick up area and the prying eyes of her supervisors to a quiet spot near the boundary fence, which fortunately makes it easy for Yoongi to talk to her. She doesn't look surprised when he materializes out of the shadows, still wearing his mask, just shakes her head at him.

"Absolutely not."

"We had a deal," Yoongi presses, crossing his arms over his chest.

"That was before the police decided to crack down on everyone. I'm not getting arrested over this."

"You wouldn't get arrested," Yoongi says. "All you need to do is park near the condemned zone in Sector 5 for ten minutes. You can tell your supervisors you were robbed. It's happened before, plenty of times. At the most, you'll get a fine, and what we're paying you will already be more than enough to compensate for that."

It hadn't been easy, acquiring the money, but Taehyung was able to carefully sift it out of a sector official's bank account and then turn it into cash that was then exchanged for ration cards, the true gold of the Outer Sectors. The cards will be more than enough to let this woman and her family live in relative comfort through the winter, as long as they're careful about concealing just how many they have.

"It's too dangerous," she insists with a shake of her head and Yoongi sighs.

He likes her, she's tough as nails and she doesn't look down on him because of his status. He didn't want to have to resort to this, but desperate times.

"I'll sweeten the deal, then."

"With what?"

"Information."

She arches an eyebrow at him, blowing out a stream of smoke from her cigarette.

"Your husband's having an affair," Yoongi says without preamble and watches her eyes widen and her mouth drop open. "Has been for months. But you already suspected that, didn't you?"

"How do you know that—"

"There are pictures on here," Yoongi says, handing over the flash drive from Taehyung. Her husband hadn't been exactly careful, and it was easy for Taehyung to locate CCTV footage of him entering an apartment building with a woman not his wife on his arm. "And I'll give you more information once you deliver the supplies."

She turns the flash drive over in her palm and shakes her head. "Fucking bastard." When she looks up at him, her eyes blaze. "Fine. You'll get your supplies. Just give me everything after so I can go kill him."

"Deal," Yoongi says and reaches out to shake her hand.

The already agreed upon rendezvous is in a few hours, giving Yoongi enough time to round up Jungkook and a few other trusted members of the network. They wait in the shadows of the crumbling Old World buildings, tension thick in the air.

"Do you really think she'll show, hyung?" Jungkook asks from behind his own mask. He has a baseball bat loosely held in one hand, to break the windows of the truck when the time comes to stage their "robbery."

"She'll show," Yoongi says with a confidence he doesn't entirely feel. He's gambling that the driver's anger will hopefully be enough for her to take the risk, but there are no guarantees.

He crouches in the snow, rubbing his hands together to warm them up. Hopefully there won't be any backlash in Sector 10 for what they're about to do. It helps that they're already under a crackdown and that there are gangs operating in Sector 8 who have nothing to do with the Marked and this will easily be blamed on them.

Whatever Jungkook might have said in response is drowned out by the rumble of an approaching truck. As promised, it parks only a few meters away, right on the edge of the condemned zone.

"Go," Yoongi whispers as the truck turns off and Jungkook darts forward like a shadow, followed by the others.

Yoongi picks up his own bat and moves at a more sedate pace, double checking that they're alone. Patrols shouldn't be headed this way for at least another hour, but caution is always important. Thankfully, no one raises any alarms as the driver steps out of the truck, her eyes a little wide.

"It'll be okay," Jungkook tells her. "Open the back."

She complies, unlocking the back of the truck and allowing Jungkook to hope inside. He immediately begins passing down boxes to the others, who carry them into the shadows to be loaded onto their own borrowed truck. The driver watches off to the side, wringing her hands nervously.

Yoongi taps her on the shoulder and hands her a second flash drive. "Everything's on here," he says. "Who he's been seeing and when, what he's withdrawing funds from your joint account for—all of it."

She nods and pockets the drive, still keeping one wary eye on Jungkook.

"Do you remember the plan?" Yoongi asks.

"Yeah," she says, calmer now. "I had a flat tire to I pulled off here to take a look at it. Got attacked by a gang from Sector 8—recognized the insignia on their jackets. They knocked me out and broke open the truck, took everything inside. I called it in as soon as I came to."

"Good," Yoongi says. "And I'm sorry."

"Just do it," she snaps, bracing herself.

He knocks her out fast, a swift and calculated blow to the head, and catches her as she slumps toward the ground, laying her down next to the driver's side of the truck.

"We have everything," Jungkook says from behind him and Yoongi nods, picking up his bat.

Together, he and Jungkook smash the windshield and both the driver and passenger side windows of the truck. They leave the back open and the key in the lock, making it look like they stole it from the driver's unconscious body. Lastly, Jungkook spray paints a gang insignia on the side of the truck for good measure: a serpent, coiled and ready to strike. It's one of the more prominent Sector 8 gangs, but Yoongi knows their current leader and has made sure that she owes him several favors, so there shouldn't be any retaliation for this. She has half of that sector's police in her pocket, anyway, and it isn't a big enough theft to alert the crown. They should be in the clear.

"Let's go," Yoongi says.

The others have already scattered—know to make their own way back to avoid suspicion—so Yoongi follows Jungkook to their truck and clambers into the passenger seat. It's an Old World model, so rusted and old that it barely runs, but a merchant was willing to loan it to them for a few extra ration cards, no questions asked. Plenty of trucks like these rumble around Sector 10, transporting various goods, as well as salvage from the condemned zone, so hopefully none of the police will check on them.

Jungkook starts the truck, curling gloved hands over the steering wheel. It rattles to life with a painful roar, vibrating around them like a living thing.

"At least we don't have to drive too far," Jungkook mutters and eases out of their hiding spot, heading for the boundary.

They take a winding, backwards route to Sector 10 and the rendezvous point in an alley behind several shops. Marked aren't allowed to own businesses, but the proprietor of the convenience store, Jang Dahye, illegally married a Marked woman, and so has been sympathetic to their cause for years. She's waiting for them when Jungkook pulls up, relief clear on her face.

"Thank god you made it," she whispers, rushing forward as they climb down from the truck. "We caused a distraction in the next district so that should keep the police off our backs for a few hours."

We probably means her wife, Chungha, Taehyung, and Hoseok.

"I thought Chungha was sick," Yoongi murmurs as they start unloading boxes. She's one of the people they promised medicine to.

"She is," Dahye says with a snort and a shake of her head. "But she refused to sit this out, of course."

Yoongi vows to pay her back for the help somehow as he follows Dahye into the shop and down the steps concealed by a secret trap door into the cellar. Dahye has never told them just how she managed to put a basement in her shop and he's never asked. It could be her own doing or a leftover from the Old World, but either way it isn't on any archived building plans and so no city officials know of its existence. It's the perfect place to store contraband, considering the trap door is located behind the register and almost always concealed with a mat.

As quickly as possible, they load the boxes on the shelves, sorting them by categories of food, medicine, blankets, and other goods. Yoongi is eternally grateful for the city's practice of throwing numerous different kinds of supplies onto the same truck when delivering to the middle and Outer Sectors, even if it's the product of constant shortages. At least this one thing makes their work a little easier.

"I'll get the message out through the usual channels," Dahye says once everything has been sorted. "We'll prioritize anyone sick and with small children." She puts a hand on his shoulder, squeezes tight. "Thank you, Suga-ssi. I ... we can't thank you enough."

Yoongi shifts his weight, uncomfortable with the gratitude. It's not why he does this—he didn't start the network for recognition, or even to stir up a revolution, even though burning Sector 1 to the ground remains a dream. He did it because he looked around at his fellow marked, all starving and sick and downtrodden like him, and decided that he was going to help them. Whatever it fucking took.

"Don't thank me," he murmurs to Dahye now. "You're risking a lot, too, Dahye-ssi. Just please make sure all of this goes where it needs to."

"I will," Dahye promises.

Jungkook bows to her, ever polite, and together him and Yoongi climb the steps back out into the night.

_ _

Pause. Listen.

_ _

Every Marked in the Outer Sectors knew Suga. Perhaps not what he looked like, or his real name, but they heard his writings broadcast over underground radio channels and stories of him spread by word of mouth like a quiet wildfire. Suga, who kept people from starving in the winters. Suga, who saved a group of children from illegal sanctioning. Suga, who took a strike for a fellow Marked so that he could stay with his family. Suga, who shut down police servers during a crackdown, allowing everyone time to hide or prepare for searches of their apartments. Suga, who has so far dodged all attempts to arrest him or uncover his identity.

Suga the protector.

Suga the revolutionary.

Suga the hero.

But as spring dawns, another quiet wildfire is spreading, whispered from Marked to Marked where prying eyes can't hear: Suga has been sanctioned. The police don't know who they've captured, or he would have been executed, so he is a prisoner now—stuck in the factories or the greenhouses or Sector 1. Hope makes one broadcast with subtle allusions to a rescue mission, then begs everyone to remain quiet.

The monarchy can't know, or they will lose Suga forever.

So the Outer Sectors mourn in secret, with their heads down. Gradually, hundreds of drawings begin to appear on the sides of buildings throughout Sectors 8, 9, and 10—small, barely noticeable unless you're looking for them, but all of the same thing:

A magpie.

A symbol of good fortune, often associated with Suga's network by those that he worked so hard to help. Suga himself may be gone, but his legacy survives—the Marked of the Outer Sectors are going to ensure it.

And one summer morning, a mural that is impossible to miss appears on the side of an apartment building in Sector 10, starting at the ground and extending up nearly two stories. It's of a man, standing with his back turned and looking over his shoulder. He has a hood pulled up over his head and a face mask obscures most of his features, but across the back of his black coat is a magpie in flight—its blue and white wings spread to catch an invisible wind.

(Suga the immortal.)

"Hyung," Park Jimin whispers, snagging the sleeve of the man next to him. "Hyung, look."

"I see it," Jung Hoseok says, eyes watering. Jimin takes his hand, threading their fingers together, and Taehyung snags his other one, squeezing tight. The tears spill over, catching on the fabric of Hoseok's mask.

"I see," he whispers with awe and grief. "I see."

_ _

Forward.

_ _

Remember, says one of the trainers at the auction house, digging a boot into Yoongi's vulnerable stomach, you are nothing.

You're mine, the first master snarls as he pressed Yoongi's tear-streaked face to the concrete floor. Never forget that.

Beg me, slut, the second master demands as Yoongi shakes from the drugs burning in his veins, beg me for what you need.

I wonder, the third master contemplates, flicking a knife open with an ominous click, what would happen if I fucked you with this? (And a desperate, panic-fueled fire rages to life in Yoongi's blood, strong enough that he turns to grab the closest weapon he can—ready to at least die on his feet.)

Get up, dog, sneers the auctioneer at Yoongi's battered form, curled up on the cot of his cell, it looks like someone might still want to buy you, as much as I'd rather send you to a boarding house.

One more fight, Yoongi tells himself as he obeys, accepting the robe that's thrown at him. Just one more.

"You're already dead," Suga says, fingers knotted in Yoongi's hair as the roof slowly collapses around them. "Why keep protesting? There's nothing left of you. You're just a used up, rotting shell."

"Stop," Yoongi hiccups as the bands on his wrists continue to burn. "Stop..."

The agony is blinding and he wheezes as Suga wrenches his head back, blinking up at the dark expanse of sky overhead—gathering storm clouds blot out the moon and the stars, just like they did the night he and Jungkook knelt on this roof and let the police take them. He can feel a scream building in his throat, bile rushing up in response to the pain of the nanotech and—

He sits up in bed, vomiting onto the blankets. His throat burns and he gasps and coughs as he tries to get air back in his lungs, stop the hyperventilating. Someone's in bed with him and they're sitting up, too, making a shocked sound. His panicked brain scrambles for an identity—First Master? Second? Third? Does he apologize? Grovel in silence? Beg?

Hands land on his shoulders and he flinches violently, trying to brace himself for a blow. Someone's speaking, but the words are muddled and murky—he can't make them out over the ringing in his ears and the loud wheeze of his own breath.

The hands pull him back against a warm chest and arms wrap around his waist but nothing else happens—no blows, no fingers around his throat. Second Master, then? He likes to wait, likes to listen to Yoongi beg before he doles out a sufficient punishment.

"I'm sorry," Yoongi croaks through his aching throat. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I—"

The arms tighten. The voice speaks again—the words a little clearer now. "Shh, it's okay. It's okay, hyung. Just breathe."

Hyung?

That can't be... the others aren't here. They haven't been for so long, he must be hallucinating still.

"Yoongi," the voice says and it sounds familiar. Fourth Master ... no, wait, that isn't right, he's not supposed to call him that it's...

Namjoon. It's Namjoon.

"Yoongi, I need you to breathe with me, okay?" Namjoon says. "In." Yoongi sucks in a stuttering breath, listening to Namjoon count slowly. "And out." He lets the air slowly spill past his parted lips. "That's good, hyung. Now in again."

Namjoon keeps going until Yoongi's breathing normally, then he reaches over and flicks on the lamp. Yoongi flinches at the sight of the ruined bed covers and the state of his own clothes.

Pathetic, Scarecrow hisses in his mind.

But Namjoon doesn't seem angry, just keeps holding him close as he continues to calm down from the panic attack. Slowly, he puts the pieces together: a party, drugs, Namjoon tying him to the bed. Fuck, this is the second time tonight Namjoon will have to change the sheets. Yoongi's not even sure what set off a nightmare this bad—if it was the high dose of drugs he was given or just his brain deciding to fuck with him for the hell of it. Either way, he feels small and disgusting and wrung out. Also for the second time in a single night.

(At least he's used to that.)

"Hey," Namjoon says with his usual gentleness, "let's get cleaned up, okay?"

He nods on autopilot and lets Namjoon help him out of the bed and across the apartment to the bathroom—Namjoon's hand warm in his own.

Not Scarecrow, he tries to remind himself as Namjoon turns on the shower, but it's hard with everything boiling so close to the surface—all these ghosts hissing in his ears.

"Do you want to be alone?" Namjoon asks, sounding dubious about the prospect. Probably because Yoongi is holding himself up with a hand on the counter and can feel how badly he's still shaking, wracked by his own private earthquake.

"No," he rasps, scraping his nails against the granite.

"Okay," Namjoon replies, infinitely patient. "Can I help you, then?"

Yoongi nods and squeezes his eyes shut as Namjoon shuffles forward and carefully helps him out of his stained sleep clothes. He leaves Yoongi's underwear, though, and Yoongi's grateful for small mercies. Still has to grit his teeth and brace himself as Namjoon guides him under the shower spray, eyes flying open when he realizes that it isn't freezing.

"Okay?" Namjoon asks him, hovering just outside and still holding Yoongi's hand.

"It's warm," Yoongi whispers.

"Too hot?"

Yoongi shakes his head frantically and reaches for the sponge with his free hand, cleaning his torso and face. Mercifully, nothing got in his hair, so he doesn't bother with shampoo, just signals to Namjoon that he's done and lets Namjoon wrap him in a giant fluffy towel before ducking under the spray to rinse himself off, as well. Yoongi leans back against the counter and continues taking calming breaths, trying his best to stay grounded.

He isn't bleeding. Namjoon isn't going to hurt him. There is no muzzle or chain waiting. He's safe, for the time being.

"Okay," Namjoon says, stepping out of the shower and wrapping another towel around himself. "I'm going to go remake the bed and I'll bring a set of clothes back. Just wait here, hyung."

Yoongi nods. Namjoon leaves the door open as he goes and Yoongi's grateful for that, too. This way he can see out into the living room and hear Namjoon moving around. This way he doesn't feel locked up.

He drifts in and out of awareness and isn't sure how much time has passed once Namjoon materializes again, fully dressed and carrying a bundle of clothes for Yoongi. He respectfully turns his back when Yoongi changes out of his damp underwear and puts the rest of the layers on. The soft fabric feels good against his skin and he blinks at the sudden pinprick of tears in his eyes, refusing to start crying on top of everything else that has happened tonight.

"Okay?" Namjoon asks him softly, still facing the wall.

"Yeah," Yoongi murmurs, setting the towel on the counter.

Namjoon turns around, a hesitant expression on his face. "Do you want to go back to bed?"

Yoongi's exhausted, drained, but the idea of lying down again doesn't feel appealing. He lets his body carry him instead—lets his feet shuffle him forward until he's pressing his forehead against Namjoon's shoulder. Namjoon makes a surprised sound, but he wraps his arms around Yoongi anyway, holding him close. Yoongi feels cocooned, safe, and he doesn't examine it. Not yet. Not until he's finished stitching himself up.

Namjoon's hand comes up to cup the back of his head and Yoongi tangles his fingers in Namjoon's sweater. The living room clock ticks loud in the strange stillness, sounding off seconds one after the other in an endless march.

One more fight, Yoongi tells the seething specter of Suga waiting for him on that rooftop. Just one more.